Empathy
by Zela
Summary: Angels! Demons! Cheap special effects! Obviosly I don't know where I'm going with this yet......Oh yeah. It's a good read! Or something...


Empathy  
  
O.K. I don't own the Metatron, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beezlebub, God, all other cast members, the original story-line or anything else. And if I'm making a profit from this, could someone please tell me? Oh, and everyone does know that **'s around a word or phrase signify italics, don't they? For some reason I can't get fanfiction.net to format them. Can anyone help with this? Anyway, enjoy! Oh, and I'm sorry about the length.  
  
Aziraphale hung up the phone smiled to himself. He had just been talking to Crowley. In point of fact, he had been arguing with Crowley. Loudly. Eventually the demon had gotten exasperated enough to slam down the phone, cursing. Aziraphale knew it would only be a matter of moments 'till he arrived. It wasn't in his nature to just let something like that slide. Inside his head, he started counting. *Three, two, one...*  
  
Sure enough there came the screeching of brakes and the slam of a car door. Then Crowley burst in, an expression of fury on his face. "All right angel!" he yelled. "If you wanted to provoke me, you've done a good job of it!"  
  
"Thank you," murmured Aziraphale.  
  
Ignoring him, Crowley stalked closer, spittle flying from his mouth as he screamed, "I can't believe you honestly think that *Star Trek: The Next Generation* is worse than the original! It's a load of SHIT! Next you'll be telling me that you enjoyed the series *Lost in Space* more than the movie!"  
  
"Well," the angel said calmly, "now that you mention it, the series was very funny. And the whole 'Danger, Will Robinson' thing was dreadfully cute."  
  
"Cute? CUTE!?! It wasn't meant to be cute! It was MEANT to be annoying! I put *hours* into that show, angel! "  
  
And that was what really offended Crowley. He had spent years slowing down technology, putting in bugs where there weren't any, making certain politicians reject funding perfectly perfect ideas to improve humanity, and generally pissing the technicians off. Then, when they had finally gotten around to making T.V, he had done his best to make really cruddy shows, with crap storylines, pathetic monsters, awful special effects and, worst * of all, American actors. Hollywood had been his triumph in the entertainment world.  
  
Of course, it had all gone wrong. The special effects had gotten better, the monsters were frightening enough for people who usually never even had to face up to a spider and it turned out that the storylines were really irrelevant. Crowley's one consolation was Hollywood. And even that wasn't much these days.  
  
Then they had decided on the remakes. Crowley had a nasty suspicion that the remakes were Aziraphale's idea. It was the kind of thing he *would* do. Bring out all those lovely old shows and touch them up, making them almost presentable, and display them for all the world to see, when all Crowley wanted to do was forget them. Of course, he'd tried making the remakes absolutely pathetic, but that just made people praise the originals even more.  
  
Aziraphale was watching Crowley closely. "Are you quite done, dear boy?" he asked. "Because if you wish to continue, I'm willing to listen, but if not I really have to talk to you."  
  
"Of course I'm not -" Crowley stopped. What Aziraphale had just said finally sank in. "Angel," he said in a dangerous voice, "did you set up that whole argument just to get me to come over here?"  
  
A slow blush spread over Aziraphale's cheeks. He had hoped it wasn't that obvious. "I - er - "  
  
"Angel!" Crowley said, a grin spreading across his face. "I'm impressed! I think that's the first time I've seen you be devious - when it wasn't an emergency, of course."  
  
"Thank you - I suppose."  
  
"That's all right," Crowley said expansively, "So what did you want to talk to me about, anyway?"  
  
"Well, er," Aziraphale thought quickly. It wouldn't do at all to say, "I've been missing you desperately, I'm so worried, do you think anything's gone wrong, comfort me, hold me, make me feel safe." Instead he settled on "Have you heard anything from your people?"  
  
Crowley frowned. "Nothing really. Although I did get an odd message the other day. It said...what was it now?...oh yes, 'Your pain in my heart.' I thought it was a practical joke. Maybe I was wrong." He shot a look at Aziraphale, "But surely you could have asked me this on the phone?"  
  
The angel shifted uncomfortably in his seat, "Listening ears, you know," he said. "And of course, I can't seem to get the hang of these machines."  
  
"And yet you successfully called me to stage that argument to get me over here. You must have been practicing."  
  
Aziraphale gulped. Crowley was becoming far too perceptive. He was reading Aziraphale like he was one of his precious books. And there were things the angel-cum-book-store-owner didn't want him to read. Not yet, anyway.  
  
"Well - I - you see, it was, er-"  
  
"Yes?" The demon's voice was gentle.  
  
Aziraphale steeled himself. He could see the future mapped out before him. He would have to say it now. There would never be another opportunity. If he didn't, he and the demon would slowly drift apart, sending each other polite little cards at Christmas and birthdays. Whenever they saw each other in the street they would stop and talk about the weather, maybe mention 'the good old days' and then stand around awkwardly until one of them remembered an urgent meeting or a dentist's appointment. They would promise to "get together again one of these days, have a drink or two." Of course they wouldn't. Instead they'd try to erase the memory of the meeting from their minds. They would become something worse than enemies. They'd be Friends Who Weren't. The type of people who Aziraphale had always pitied, and Crowley wished he'd never thought of. The type who'd let something wonderful slip away, and who, deep in their hearts, knew they'd never experience something like that again.  
  
Aziraphale couldn't let that happen. He was willing to Fall to prevent it.  
  
He looked Crowley full in the face. "Crowley, I lo-"  
  
And that was when the street blew up.  
  
* * *  
  
Crowley slowly returned to consciousness. He seemed to be floating in some sort of gray, soft *thing*. He had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there. Under these circumstances people generally ask pointless questions like: "Where am I?", "Who are you?", "What happened?" and "Will my laundry be ready by Thursday?" Crowley might have asked one of these questions, but he was feeling too lazy to do so. After all, Sloth is one of the Deadly Sins.  
  
Unfortunately, lazy was not an option. With a sigh, he tried to recollect what had happened. The last thing he remembered was the explosion. Well, he thought it was an explosion. There had been blinding light, tremendous noise and *heat*. Go-, Hel-, Sata-, *Shit* the heat! Normally he wouldn't have felt it, he didn't have to after all. But he hadn't been expecting it, and with his defences down - well, he was surprised his body had survived at all. That thought prompted him to look down.  
  
"Holy crap!" This was enough to overcome his laziness. This was *definitely* enough to overcome his laziness.  
  
He didn't have a body.  
  
* * * Over on the other side of the *thing* Aziraphale was experiencing the same difficulties. "Oh dear," he murmured. Then with a sigh, he settled back (as much as a consciousness *can* settle back) to wait for whatever happened next. He was sure that eventually something would come along. It was ineffable.  
  
* * * Crowley felt something brush by him. Well, not so much *felt* as imagined feeling, just as he imagined whirling around to face this possible threat. There was nothing there. The demon muttered angrily to himself. He *hated* this place. Of course, he knew where he was now. They'd changed the décor a bit, probably to impress new souls, and the feel of the place wasn't quite the same as when he'd last been here (four hundred and sixty-three years ago), but he knew the place. This was the place where the Lost Ones dwelled, the giant Waiting Room of Time, the eternal Limbo, the Home of the Soulless Angels, the Door Unto both Heaven and Hell, the Endless Corridor of the Ages. This was the Entrance Hall of Judgement, where the multitudes waited for the determination of their miserable fates. Oh yes, Crowley had been here before, he had listened to the screams and wails and tears. In the end, no-one was confident enough in themselves to believe they'd honestly go to Heaven. Sometimes Crowley thought that that alone should condemn them to Hell. It would certainly cut down the noise. With the millions of people constantly swirling about in a tide of humanity, the place was always full up. There had been talk of building an extension. That was probably why Crowley was so surprised that it was completely and totally empty.  
  
* * * "Aziraphale," a voice whispered.  
  
"I beg your pardon?" the angel asked, startled. He had just been starting to doze off, when he had heard the voice.  
  
"Aziraphale, thy God wishes to speak with thee."  
  
"Oh," the angel said, mentally trying to clean himself up. "Oh, my."  
  
"He comes even now, Aziraphale," the voice said. "Be ready for Him."  
  
It seemed to Aziraphale that he could see (not that he could see) a faint light off in the distance. Then the next instant, the vague form of the Metatron was standing before him.  
  
"Er," said the angel eloquently.  
  
"Greetings, Aziraphale," the Metatron said.  
  
"Er," said Aziraphale again.  
  
The Metatron appeared to get impatient. "Aziraphale," it said, "has the cat got your tongue?"  
  
Aziraphale started his customary 'Er', then thought better of it. "I, I, I t-thought I was going to s-speak to - to - to the Holy One," he managed eventually.  
  
"Aziraphale," the Metatron said with infinite patience, "you *are* speaking to 'the Holy One' as you put it."  
  
"But you - I - it - what?"  
  
The Metatron sighed. "I am the Voice of God, am I not?" it asked.  
  
"Er."  
  
"God cannot speak without a voice, can he?"  
  
"Er?"  
  
"So, in a way, I am God."  
  
"Er!"  
  
"You find this offensive? You think perhaps that I am getting to big for my boots?" The Metatron's voice had the barest hint of threat in it. "Think carefully before you answer, Angel of the East Gate."  
  
Aziraphale finally managed to find his voice. "Angel you may be, Metatron," he said angrily, "And a senior angel at that, but don't dare to presume you are the Ineffable One! Lucifer made that mistake as well, and look what happened to him! We may be divine, but that divinity comes from God, and He can take it away whenever He feels like it. It is our duty to serve our Father with humility, not to exalt ourselves for the role he's given us! I expected better of you."  
  
The Metatron laughed softly. "Very good, Aziraphale," it said. "You passed the test."  
  
"Test?"  
  
"Yes, test. You are indeed humble as our Lord assured me. You are a true angel, Aziraphale. I am pleased. Although I must admit, you really could improve your public speaking skills. All those 'ers' were starting to get on my nerves."  
  
"Er?"  
  
"Stop that! I'm not going to bite off your head, you know. The Father has a special task for you. But first, there is a small matter we must attend to."  
  
"Yes?" the angel said tentatively.  
  
"The demon, Aziraphale. The demon."  
  
"eep." * * * "Crowley," a voice said. It had slightly female overtones.  
  
Crowley ignored it.  
  
"*Crowley,*" it said again.  
  
He continued to ignore it.  
  
"CROWLEY!!!"  
  
"All right, all right," he muttered.  
  
"It is time for you to receive your new body."  
  
The demon perked up a bit. "Yeah?" he asked cautiously.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"O.K." He waited expectantly. Nothing happened.  
  
He started to get impatient. "Well?" he asked. "C'mon already, what's taking so long?"  
  
"There are things you must know before you receive your body back."  
  
"Back? What do you mean, *back?"* The demon was suddenly suspicious.  
  
"That is one of the things I must tell you."  
  
"All right, I'm listening."  
  
"There have been many changes since last you received your body. For the sake of expediency, Heaven and Hell have declared this place neutral ground. Here shall angels, demons and humans all be processed in exactly the same way."  
  
Crowley didn't like that word. *Processed.* It had faint overtones of machinery.  
  
"However," the voice continued. "There has been a violation of the treaty. Unfortunately, in a recent event of great magnitude, a demon and an angel *got involved.* This near-disastrous event has caused both Heaven and Hell to, at great expense to themselves, come up with a new solution."  
  
Crowley winced. He could hear the accusation in the thing's voice. It was talking about him, Aziraphale and the Apocalypse. *Hmm,* he suddenly thought, *that would make a good book title. 'Crowley, Aziraphale and the Apocalypse.' Could be a best-seller. Now I just have to think what to put in it. I'm sure no one would be interested in our real exploits.*  
  
He stopped suddenly. "Treaty?"  
  
"Yes. Though their means are entirely different, Heaven and Hell are actually clawing their way towards the same result."  
  
"But they disagree all the time!"  
  
"As a matter of fact they are always of exactly the same opinion. For example, Heaven wants complete dominion over the Earth. So does Hell."  
  
"That's sophistry!"  
  
"Why should I care?" The voice said indifferently. "The point is, after you and the angel spoiled their fun, Heaven and Hell decided they were going to have to think up an easier way of keeping an eye on you. Since you are always urging Hell to catch up with the times, they proposed that considering that in this era image is everything, they'd follow the human example."  
  
"Eh?"  
  
The voice groaned. "My luck to get an idiot," it said to no-one in particular. "In other words, Crowley, you will be keeping the same body from now on. Forever. Your ability to change form is being stripped from you, and every other divine being. Hell will now be watching your body, not your mind. Effectively, what the body says, goes. If they catch it doing something wrong then that's that. They won't bother with reading your mind anymore, so there won't be any excuses. You'll just go straight to oblivion. End of story."  
  
"Wonderful," Crowley muttered. He was still too shell-shocked to completely understand what was happening. Then suddenly he thought of something. "What about my demon form?"  
  
"That is allowed to you, but it will be watched even more closely than your human one."  
  
"Oh." He thought some more. Then, "What actually happened?" he asked. "When my body died, I mean."  
  
"It was a terrorist attack," the voice said shortly. "There was meant to be some-one important there. Instead, they got you."  
  
"Oh. What will happen to Azira - to the angel's shop?" Crowley asked.  
  
"The whole street will be recreated. All memory of the incident will be erased. It will take a lot of energy." It felt as though the voice was glaring at him. "You are not in Hell's good books right now Crowley. You have a nasty habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time."  
  
Crowley directed a mental (in both senses of the word) grin at the voice. "One does one's best."  
  
* * *  
  
Aziraphale couldn't be sure if the Metatron was angry or amused. It was impossible to read his face and the angel had long ago stopped trying. All the Aziraphale knew was that he was almost certainly in trouble.  
  
"So," the Metatron said, "Let me see if I've got this right so far. Out of sheer coincidence the demon's car, a black Bentley, just *happened* to break down in front of your shop at the precise moment you were walking out the front door. Amazingly enough the demon recognised you, even though you hadn't seen each other since at *least* the fourteenth century, when you were arguing about the Spanish Inquisition. Am I right so far?"  
  
"Yes?" Aziraphale guessed.  
  
The Metatron raised one eyebrow. "You realised to your horror that there were no service stations about, even though I'm *sure* I recall you congratulating us on the creation of the new 'Mobil' down the road just a few weeks ago. Out of the goodness of your heart you offered to help this demon. After much persuasion, he agreed, although reluctantly. Astonishingly, both of you had recently been hit on the head with a golf club, and neither of you realised that: a) You could easily fix the car with your powers and b) the Bentley, being run by the demon's own power, could not break down in the first place without outside or *inside* help. You were about to call the N.R.M.A when the shop blew up. And that's how you and the demon both ended up here together. Right?"  
  
"Yes?" Aziraphale was painfully aware of just how badly this was going.  
  
"Aziraphale," the Metatron said levelly, "you are a terrible liar. However, that is not what surprises me. What surprises me is that you are a liar at all. You're incapable of it, you know. It's not part of your nature."  
  
"Well then," said Aziraphale desperately. "That means I didn't lie, right?"  
  
The Metatron laughed shortly. "Nice try. No, you did lie. However, that's not what I'm interested in. What I want to know is *why?* Not to protect yourself, your little speech before proved that. Why, then?"  
  
It was obvious the Metatron knew why. Aziraphale could see the knowledge in his eyes. He just wanted to hear the words from Aziraphale's own mouth.  
  
The angel remained staunchly silent.  
  
The Metatron's lip started to curl. "Could it be," he said softly, "could it possibly be that you wish to protect this demon of yours?" He smiled coldly. "Fear not, O Brave Angel of the East Gate. We shall not hurt him. He is under Hell's jurisdiction, unfortunately. But come, tell me the truth. Is it this demon you wish to save?" Aziraphale looked away. The Metatron's face grew cunning. "Well then," he said, "would you lie to the Father?"  
  
Suddenly there was a blinding light and an overwhelming sense of presence. MY CHILD, God said, I HAVE LISTENED TO YOUR WORDS. I HAVE SEEN INTO YOUR HEART. IN THERE HAVE I FOUND A LOCKED PLACE, WHICH EVEN I CANNOT OPEN. I SEE THAT THE LOCKING OF THAT PLACE HAS CAUSED YOU MUCH PAIN. TELL ME WHAT IT IS YOU HIDE.  
  
Aziraphale bit his lip. It was just like the Metatron to know exactly what - or who - could make him talk. *Oh Crowley, *he thought, *What would I give to tell you? It's been burning my heart out, Crowley. I don't think I could have lived like this for much longer anyway, with you but without you. At least this way, I don't put you in danger. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you Crowley. I have to tell him. I have to. You understand that, don't you? Please understand.*  
  
He looked at God. "I love the demon Crowley, Father," he said. "I always will. I am willing to Fall for him. Please don't be ashamed."  
  
The Light grew, if possible, even more blinding. I AM PLEASED WITH YOU, AZIRAPHALE, the Ultimate Divinity said, NOT ASHAMED. DID I NOT BRING LOVE INTO THIS WORLD TO GIVE THE HUMANS HOPE? THAT MY ANGELS MAY SHARE IN IT ALSO IS A JOY TO ME. BE WELL AZIRAPHALE, AND FEAR NOT. And then he was gone.  
  
"Well Aziraphale," the Metatron said with a smile, "you seem to have come out of that fairly well."  
  
The angel flinched back. "Oh don't be silly," the Metatron said. "Who do you think it was who persuaded our Father to be benevolent with you?"  
  
Aziraphale stared in shock. "You?"  
  
"Of course. But first, I wanted you to prove you really loved Crowley. You did that all right. Those thoughts near the end - Let's just say they erased the last of my doubts."  
  
"You heard what I was thinking?"  
  
"You were pretty loud about it. Anyway, at first the Ineffable One wasn't too pleased about your little attachment." The Metatron shook it's head ruefully. "Actually, He was Hell bent on coming down to Earth and knocking some sense into you. Thankfully I managed to talk Him out of that. I got Him to set up this instead. And don't ask me why. Let's just say I understand how you feel." The Metatron smiled. "Don't look so surprised! I think we've all been in love at least once. Fortunately most of us don't take it as far as you and I. And no, I'm not going to explain. Just be glad that He likes you. When He found out what *I'd* done, He gave me this job. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to forgive Him for that. Anyway, you'd better go. Your book shop will be back to normal by the time you arrive."  
  
The light started to fade.  
  
"Oh, and one other thing Aziraphale." The angel looked up.  
  
"Maybe you should think a bit before you tell Crowley about these feelings of yours. It might make things simpler in the long run. Enjoy the trip back. And by the way, you'll be getting your old body again. Crowley will explain."  
  
Then the Metatron was gone, and Aziraphale was tumbling through grayness.  
  
* * * Crowley opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor in the back room of Aziraphale's book shop. There was dust everywhere, and the floorboards were surprisingly hard. Groaning, he got up. Something didn't feel quite right. "Ungh," he said. "uggle erble ig?" He reached up and twisted his jaw about a few times.  
  
"There," he said. Then he stretched. He could hear his bones popping. "Bastards," he muttered. "Never can get it right."  
  
Suddenly, he remembered Aziraphale. He wanted to talk to him about a few things. "Aziraphale," he called softly, padding into the front of the store. "Aziraphale?" Feeling slightly disgruntled, he stalked into the back of the store again, feeling like a hunter tracking his prey. The idea of Aziraphale as his prey was slightly odd, but also, in a strange way, exciting. An intent expression crossed his face as he slipped fully into his self-assigned role. A manic grin slid across his mouth. "You'd better watch out, my little angel," he murmured to himself. "Here I come." Just exactly what he was going to do to Aziraphale once he caught him he wasn't quite sure, or rather, he didn't want to think about. But it was sure to lead to some very interesting possibilities.  
  
So the hunt began. He prowled around corners, he darted from shadow to shadow. The angel's store was far more extensive than he ever would have believed. Finally, he came to a place where he could choose one of two doors. He started towards the right one, then he heard a noise. It sounded like a whimper. The voice definitely wasn't Aziraphale's, yet it still sounded somehow familiar.  
  
With an anticipatory smile, Crowley opened the left door. And looked straight into a mirror.  
  
His eyes widened in shock, then he laughed. His image didn't move. He stopped laughing. "Wha-?" His voice! It was different! What was going on?  
  
"Crowley?" his image asked. It reached out a hand and touched his face. "Crowley, is that you?"  
  
Suddenly Crowley realised what had happened. Somehow, someway, he and the angel had swapped bodies on their return to earth.  
  
"Aziraphale?" he whispered. Just like Aziraphale had done to him, he reached out and touched the angel's face - his face. Then, he reached up to touch his own. "Oh my God," he said. His voice became louder. "Oh Sweet Mother of Jesus." It was the first time he'd sworn like that since - well, since ever, really.  
  
"Crowley, please. Please don't. Not just now. Not with this." Crowley's own voice begged him not to, his own eyes pleaded with him. Tears started to fall down his face. Aziraphale's face. He didn't know how to deal with something like this. It was just too big. He looked up and saw the angel crying. Unconsciously he reached out to comfort him. Their tears mingled as they slid down the wall, holding each other close.  
  
"Oh Gods Aziraphale," Crowley whispered again. "What are we going to do? What on earth are we going to do?" ------------------  
  
*Or best, depending on your point of view.  
  
Once again, sorry about the length. Hopefully the others will be shorter. By the way, has anyone wondered who the Metatron fell in love with? Actually, I was kind've playing around with the idea of Beezlebub. How's that strike you? Heh heh heh. Maybe I'll write a fanfic about that one of these days. Or even better, one of you can. Anyway, tell me if you want me to continue. I probably will anyway, but support is nice sometimes. 


End file.
